“Neither did I!” said Edward Henry.  “What do you think of the play?”

“Well,” answered Mr. Alloyd, low and cautiously, with a somewhat shamed grin, “between you and me I think the play’s bosh.”

“Come, come!” Edward Henry murmured as if in protest.

The word “bosh” was almost the first word of the discussion which he had comprehended, and the honest familiar sound of it did him good.  Nevertheless, keeping his presence of mind, he had forborne to welcome it openly.  He wondered what on earth “anti-representational” could mean.  Similar conversations were proceeding around him, and each could be very closely heard, for the reason that, the audience being frankly intellectual and anxious to exchange ideas, the management had wisely avoided the expense and noise of an orchestra.  The entr’acte was like a conversazione of all the cultures.

“I wish you’d give us some scenery and costumes like this in your theatre,” said Alloyd, as he strolled away.

The remark stabbed him like a needle; the pain was gone in an instant, but it left a vague fear behind it, as of the menace of a mortal injury.  It is a fact that Edward Henry blushed and grew gloomy—­and he scarcely knew why.  He looked about him timidly, half defiantly.  A magnificently-arrayed woman in the row in front, somewhat to the right, leaned back and towards him, and behind her fan said: 

“You’re the only manager here, Mr. Machin!  How alive and alert you are!” Her voice seemed to be charged with a hidden meaning.

“D’you think so?” said Edward Henry.  He had no idea who she might be.  He had probably shaken hands with her at his stone-laying, but if so he had forgotten her face.  He was fast becoming one of the oligarchical few who are recognized by far more people than they recognize.

“A beautiful play!” said the woman.  “Not merely poetic but intellectual!  And an extraordinarily acute criticism of modern conditions!”

He nodded.  “What do you think of the scenery?” he asked.

“Well, of course candidly,” said the woman, “I think it’s silly.  I daresay I’m old-fashioned.” ...

“I daresay,” murmured Edward Henry.

“They told me you were very ironic,” said she, flushing but meek.

“They!” Who?  Who in the world of London had been labelling him as ironic?  He was rather proud.

“I hope if you do do this kind of play—­and we’re all looking to you, Mr. Machin,” said the lady, making a new start, “I hope you won’t go in for these costumes and scenery.  That would never do!”

Again the stab of the needle!

“It wouldn’t,” he said.

“I’m delighted you think so,” said she.

An orange telegram came travelling from hand to hand along that row of stalls, and ultimately, after skipping a few persons, reached the magnificently-arrayed woman, who read it, and then passed it to Edward Henry.